


my truest feeling yet

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: Every touch of his hands is so gentle that it makes a tender ache spread across Mo's chest, and this time, he can't stop himself from reaching out. He brushes the tips of his fingers long the sharp line of Virgil's cheekbone, where he's warm to the touch and sweat slicked, and gets a blinding grin in return.





	my truest feeling yet

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is set after the spurs game, in case you couldn't already tell. virgil gave mo the cutest hug and it just about killed me off bc their friendship is so special, and thus, this fic was born.
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you for reading! xxx

By the time the celebrations on the pitch are over, Mo is exhausted. Hugs from his teammates and back slaps from the opposition is enough social interaction to last him a lifetime, but he knows it won't end there. This win feels like a season winning one - and he's positive it felt the opposite for the Tottenham players.

It was a rough game. Nail biting and fast, furious tackles and desperate shots, but somehow they managed to pull it off. Him and his brothers, his friends, his _family_. They were all in it together, and they win together too.

He knows the last goal came off Alderweireld and he knows it'll go down as an own goal, but it feels like his. Deep in his chest, through his veins, he claims it. He made that win happen, and it feels good. It's a step in the right direction, and after all those games with no finish - it feels like a fucking miracle.

Mohamed Salah is back, and he's back with a bang.

Dejan has his arms around Mo's neck all the way down the tunnel and into the dressing room, yelling about the win and how good it feels to be back at the top of the table. Then it's Milly, with a hand in his hair as he jumps around to the awful pop music Hendo is pumping through the speakers. Gini is across the room, laughing with a couple of the boys. They're all flushed and happy, but Mo can only focus on one man.

Virgil, who's listening to everything Gini says, nodding and grinning. His cheeks are still pink from the exertion of the game, sweat rolling down the side of his neck as he takes the band out of his hair. He's sitting on the edge of the bench, ankle strapped up and a bag of ice resting on it gingerly, but it looks like it's barely bothering him. If that was Mo, he'd be back in the medical room right now, making the staff find out exactly what was going on.

The boys all filter into the showers one by one, but Mo shifts his bag to the side and drops himself onto the bench. He needs five minutes, just peace and quiet so he can collect his own thoughts, because it feels like people have been shouting in his ear all day. He can tune Hendo's shitty Spotify playlist out easy enough, and he closes his eyes as his head tips back against the wall.

“You played well today,” a voice says playfully, at the very same time warm fingers start spidering up the inside of his knee. He opens his eyes to find Virgil kneeling on the ground in front of him, grinning with his teeth bared and eyes sparkling. “I'm proud of you.”

Mo smiles back at him tiredly, hands aching to reach out and bury in Virgil's hair. He stops himself because he's aware of their surroundings, knows that any one of the lads could come out of the showers at any second and catch them in a compromising position and he wouldn't be able to hear them over the music. He's pretty sure they know what's going on by now, but he doesn't want to have that conversation when he's not even spoken about it with Virgil. “You're not showering?” He asks, unable to take his eyes off of the older man's face.

“Thought I'd let the boys fight it out first,” Virgil says simply, fingers sliding down the length of Mo's shin to his feet. He starts untying the laces of his cleats, one shoe at a time with quick and sure movements. “I have all the time in the world.”

Every touch of his hands is so gentle that it makes a tender ache spread across Mo's chest, and this time, he can't stop himself from reaching out. He brushes the tips of his fingers long the sharp line of Virgil's cheekbone, where he's warm to the touch and sweat slicked, and gets a blinding grin in return.

The sound of broken singing filters out from the showers, off key with a cacophony of accents, but it's barely background noise to Mo. All he can see is Virgil on his knees in front of him; all he can feel is the drag of calluses as he rolls Mo's socks down his shins; all he can hear is the sound of his breathing, still ragged from the exertion of running around for ninety minutes. 

“That was a good win,” Virgil says absently, eyes focused on his hands. His palm is hot and soft where it's curled around the back of Mo's calf, holding him in place as he strips the socks off of his feet and shoves them in his cleats. “Shame you didn't score, though.”

“Fuck you,” Mo counters. There’s no heat behind it, just the easy back and forth banter that makes Mo’s heart beat painfully against his ribs every time it happens. He treasures moments like this; where he doesn’t have to think about what he’s saying or how Virgil will react. They know each other inside and out, by now. There’s no hesitation there anymore. “Shame you didn’t keep a clean sheet.”

Virgil gasps, mock offended, and presses one hand to his chest as the other rubs soothing circles into the muscles of the younger man’s leg. He looks so ridiculous that Mo can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up his throat. “Did you not see me with Sissoko and Son? Two on one? Best defender in the world – or so I’ve heard,” he says. The words are teasing, but there’s still an element of careful pride there, eyes glazed over in astonishment. All the articles over the recent months have shocked Virgil, as if he didn’t know how good he was.

“You’re just a poor man’s Dej,” Mo says, pushing his foot into Virgil’s stomach. The movement makes the other man tumble backwards, landing on his behind with his knees bent and feet flat on the floor, and he stays in that position, removing his hands and grinning up at Mo. 

It’s probably a good job that he moved, because the lads start trailing out of the showers. “Did I hear my name?” Dejan asks. There’s a towel wrapped around his waist and he’s using another to dry his hair, staring at the pair of them with a raised eyebrow.

“Just explaining to Virg that you’re a much better player than him,” Mo says carefully. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Virgil while he speaks, and grins, bottom lip caught between his teeth as Virgil reaches up to pinch his thigh.

“Well,” Dejan says, drawing out the word for a few seconds longer than necessary. He doesn’t even seem fazed that he’s been dragged into this moment, whatever it is – moreso, he seems like he expected it. Maybe they are that obvious, and maybe they’re saying what it is without even speaking at all. “You are correct.” 

Dejan gets distracted then, turning away from them as Bobby engages him in conversation. Mo doesn't miss the sharp look Firmino sends him - it's clearly an out - but nobody else is staring in their direction. It's probably a forced thing, but Mo can't seem to bring himself to care.

Virgil rises to his feet, stripping his jersey and undershirt over his head and throwing them onto his bench with one swift movement before holding out his hand. “Come on,” he says quietly, cocking his head towards the showers. Hendo is making his way out, and he was the last one in there. Mo knows this because he always takes his time, washing his hair carefully and checking his face in the mirror. 

He sheds his own dirt stained clothes slowly, dropping them in a heap outside the showers that Virgil tuts at, but it's worth it just to see the older man stood there with his shorts slung low on his hips, arms crossed over his chest and face expectant. 

“I mean it, Salah,” Virgil says, curling his fingers around the back of Mo's neck when he takes a step closer. He dips his head until their foreheads are almost touching, voice soft and barely above a whisper when he speaks again. “Even when you're not banging them in the top bins, you're still one of the best players in the world.”

The use of the phrase top bins sounds ridiculous coming out of Virgil's mouth; Robbo uses it all the time in training, running around screaming it when they're playing five a sides and Sadio scores a screamer, but it doesn't sit right with Virgil's thick accent. Still, he stifles his laugh with a hand over his mouth, and says, “thank you, Virg.”

He's never meant anything more in his life.

Virgil searches his face for a few seconds, but he seems satisfied because he slides his fingers into Mo's hair and uses the pull of it to tilt his head back. Their lips meet, and it's probably a little risky to be kissing right here where anyone could catch them, but Virgil's mouth is wet and hot and blocks out any fears Mo might have.

“Now go get in that shower,” Virgil says when he breaks the kiss. They're still close, a few scant millimetres between them and Virgil's lips brushing Mo's when he speaks, but he pulls away entirely and slaps his hand firmly against Mo's arse with a grin. “You stink.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [bami-dele](https://bami-dele.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
